Touch
by pearls1990
Summary: What was it about John Watson's touch that would startle Sherlock out of his sleep? The damp, warm hand that grasped his own; searching, longing for a pulse and never finding one. The warmth would linger on Sherlock's hand long after they wheeled him away. In the two years he was dismantling Moriarty's web, he often contemplated his wrist. The places that John had touched, a solid
1. Sentiment

**_A/N: Just a short little one-shot I found hidden in my documents folder on my computer. Let me know what you think! Reviews are love! _**

* * *

What was it about John Watson's touch that would startle Sherlock out of his sleep? The damp, warm hand that grasped his own; searching, longing for a pulse and never finding one. The warmth would linger on Sherlock's hand long after they wheeled him away. In the two years he was dismantling Moriarty's web, he often contemplated his wrist. The places that John had touched, a solid grip, yet gentle enough not to hurt. A touch that Sherlock knew could heal, or take a life.

**Touch.**

It was something that Sherlock took for granted, until the fall, when he realized that one touch could break him, reduce him into a mere human and not the thinking machine he had thought of himself. Most certainly not the hero that John had made him out to be. There was something in the lingering touches of other humans that Sherlock started to find fascinating. Especially since he had been back. Mrs. Hudson placed her hand on his shoulder, or his arm whenever she had the opportunity and the touch made him feel grounded. It was a motherly touch. Lestrade was never the touchy-feely type, maybe a clap on the shoulder, or the crushing hug that he gave when Sherlock presented himself again after two years, but that was it. Molly never touched him, and he never touched Molly, except for the two kisses.

Sherlock held his hand up in the dim light of his room. It was only a shadow, but he could see the outline, and amazingly still feel the weight of John's grip on his wrist, even after three years. He thought about the many times he had broken into John's personal space and the man never winced, or backed away. It was like he was daring Sherlock to come closer, let's see who breaks first in the personal space game. Sherlock realized after a while that it came from being a soldier, and in that respect he wondered what kind of touch could break John? He wondered if he had ever touched John in the way that John had touched him, leaving a lingering presence. He thought about how John's skin felt, warm, soft, wet from Sherlock's kisses...

Sherlock took a deep breath and turned over onto his belly, adjusting himself in the process, willing his excitement to calm.

He hated himself for thinking about John this way when he was away on his honeymoon, being touched by Mary, the way he wanted to touch John.

Sherlock was addicted to John. He knew in his own way, John was addicted to him as well; addicted to danger, addicted to adventure.

He stared at his hand again in the darkness.

Sherlock was addicted to John. He was addicted to the emotions that John made him feel for the first time in his life, Sherlock felt pain, he felt agony, he felt sadness, he felt defeat and happiness, elation, warmth, and the most deadliest of them all: _Sentiment._


	2. The Dance

**_A/N: Sherlock uncovers a file in his mind palace that he thought he had buried deep in the darkest corners._**

* * *

The London evening had been unusually hot for that time of year and it only exacerbated Sherlock's exhaustion and lousy mood. He was exhausted from spending so much time on a case that, in the end was so simple, a child could have solved it. His lousy mood came from involving himself in a case that was that simple. His exhaustion was palpable as he stripped down on the way to his bedroom, not caring that he left a trail of his garments down the hall. It didn't matter now that John wasn't living with him. He wasn't even in the same country; he was on his honeymoon in Aruba. He opened his window, lamented at the lack of breeze and flopped down on his bed.

John's grip on his wrist startled him awake for the third time that week. He woke with a gasp as he looked around, taking inventory that he was actually in his bedroom and not on the hard sidewalk in front of Bart's Hospital. Sighing he turned over onto his back, stretching out his muscles as he did. He glanced at his alarm clock and groaned. He either slept so hard he turned back time two hours, or he slept almost twenty hours in a row. Sherlock rubbed his face and came to the conclusion that he slept for twenty hours in a row. It was dark outside and the temperature had dropped considerably.

Sherlock swung his long legs over the side of the bed and stood and stretched. He looked outside and saw the puddles on the street; a rainstorm must've come through and cooled things off. He shut the window just enough to let in a light breeze, went to use the toilet and grabbed himself a glass of water and drank the whole thing. Looking in the mirror at his bedraggled reflection, he decided he wasn't in the mood to deal with anyone and went back to lay in his bed.

Interlacing his hands behind his head, he contemplated his dream, hoping it wouldn't end in sentimentalism like his last contemplation did. He unconsciously rubbed the wrist that John touched as he thought about the number of times him and John would touch, just casually, on a daily basis. They were numerous; from a brush of the fingers in handing something to each other to an accidental brush of the lips as they were dancing-

Sherlock sat up. He had thought he had filed that deep in the back of a file cabinet in the far corner of his mind, saving it for a rainy day... 

...it was a rainy day and Sherlock's thoughts wandered... 

Wedding prep, stag-do planning, the amount of times they touched each other in that short time was staggering to Sherlock; the light touch on the small of his back as John introduced him to someone or another, the touch on the back of his neck when John needed to tell him to tone his deductions down...and then...

"I need you to help me practice my dancing," John said as he entered the flat. Sherlock looked over the top of his newspaper and observed John: his left hand was flexing, his lips were terse, he was looking at the floor, and his hair was mussed. He had his dark coat and scarf which meant he met someone of relative importance to Mary.

"Mary's parents suddenly come to claim her?" Sherlock couldn't help himself as he turned back to his paper.

John rolled his eyes.

"No," he huffed. "I just realized that I haven't danced since, well...possibly before I went into the Army. I'm rusty and I need help." He cleared his throat and went on. "Mrs. Hudson is out and Molly says she has two left feet."

Sherlock furrowed his brow at his flat mate. He rarely mentioned the army or the war, so to hear him mention it now, piqued Sherlock's curiosity.

"And what makes you so sure that I can dance?"

John finally looked him in the eye.

"Because it seems like something you would have stored in your mind-palace."

Sherlock cocked his head as he laid the newspaper in his lap.

"You're not wrong, but-"

"Will you help me or not?"John cut him off.

"Of course," he stood, took off his dressing gown, and threw it in his chair. "I will find some music."

John nodded and took off his coat.

"Okay," Sherlock said after plugging in his iPod to the speaker. "We will start simple, just a two-step then a waltz."

"Sounds good. Both of those I know," John said, taking a deep breath.

"I will let you lead so I can find what you need to work on," Sherlock gestured to John.

"Alright," he rubbed his palms on his trousers and held his hand out.

Sherlock smirked.

"Aren't you going to ask politely?"

John closed his eyes and pursed his lips.

"May I have this dance?"

"Of course," Sherlock nodded slightly and put his hand in John's as John placed his other hand on his shoulder.

"Now how are you supposed to lead me that way?" Sherlock tutted as he grabbed John's hand and placed it on his waist. He bit his lip to hide his chuckle as he watched John's face turn a slight shade of pink. "Really, John?"

John suddenly let go and Sherlock missed the weight of his touch.

"I-...I can't do this," he shook his head. "I shouldn't have asked you. Just...just forget this..."

His breathing was erratic as he turned to leave the flat before Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"John,"

The doctor let out a frustrated breath as he stopped in the doorway.

"Sherlock...just let me go..." he spoke through his teeth.

"No, John, you need to do this. Your wedding is in a week."

John didn't move.

"Do it for Mary."

Sherlock saw the man exhale as he hung his head and shook it.

"Fine, for Mary," John finally turned as Sherlock let go of his arm and walked to the middle of the room and stood, running his hand over his face.

"Relax," Sherlock clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Would you feel more comfortable if I lead?"

John opened his mouth, then closed it as he looked up into Sherlock's blue-green eyes. He found nothing but caring and empathy there. He nodded.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"May I have this dance?" He held out his hand and John rolled his eyes again as he placed his hand in Sherlock's and the other on his shoulder. Sherlock hovered his hand over John's waist. "May I?" He asked.

John hesitated and Sherlock thought he was backing out again and he squeezed his hand affectionately.

"Yeah...yes, it's fine. I'm fine," John shook his head.

Sherlock raised his brow.

"Are you sure? You don't look fine. You look like you're going to vomit."

"Nerves...I've never been this close to another man before."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it.

"But John, it's just me," he paused. "If it makes you feel better, you can pretend that I am you and you are Mary?"

John barked out a laugh.

"Now that's quite the image," he drew in a deep breath. "Okay, I'll be fine. It is just you, Sherlock Holmes. I'm getting dance practice from Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock felt John's body shake when he laughed and he liked it.

"I'll start the music again," he reached over and pushed a button and a string ensemble filled the room. "Waltz first. Go ahead John."

After a couple stutter starts and toes stepped on, they finally found their rhythm.

And Sherlock couldn't help but feel comfortable like this.

"Now," Sherlock said once the music stopped. "I want you to look at me, instead of your feet, John."

"I … what?" John looked up as Sherlock smiled one of his rare genuine smiles. "I wasn't looking at my feet the _whole_ time."

"Yes, you were," Sherlock reached out and started the music again. His hand settled on John's waist and he saw his jaw flex as his breathing increased and he swallowed audibly. "Relax. Remember, it's just me. Mrs. Hudson isn't coming home for quite some time. And who cares what she thinks, she's not going to judge."

"Yeah, but we'll end up in the gossip columns. People always talk."

"Isn't that what they do the best?"

John chuckled and the detective felt him relax.

"Now, dance."

Sherlock gave a small push and they started dancing again. John stepped on Sherlock's feet a couple times and he looked back down at his feet.

"John," Sherlock stopped and tipped his head forward as he brought John's up with one finger under his chin. They were nose to nose as they felt each others breath on their mouths.

And time seemed to stop.

Each held their breaths as Sherlock took a chance and brushed John's lips with his, and braced himself for a slap or a hard push.

Instead, he was rewarded with a feverish, yet passionate kiss as John wrapped his arms around his waist as if he was going to disappear again. Sherlock cupped his hands around the doctors face as his phone went off.

John stepped away, breathless as he stared incredulously at Sherlock who braced himself again.

"I-I need...I should go," John cleared his throat and looked around for his jacket.

"Hanging on-" Sherlock started as John found it.

"Murdock's for your stag-do?" Sherlock called as John was walking down the stairs.

"Yup!"

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, his fingers ghosting over his lips, wondering what the hell just happened.


End file.
